Peggy
by launchpad99
Summary: We all love Agent Peggy Carter, but we don't know much about her life before (and after) she met skinny Steve Rogers...until now. Feel free to review, blah blah blah, all that jazz. In progress, expect sporadic chapter entries.
1. April 15, 1946

_15/4/46_

_Steve,_

_I never got a chance to tell you, but...I hate living in New York. It's an unparalleled achievement of human engineering, but the people are...well, I don't want to sound snobbish. I know how much you loved it, and I simply couldn't bear what you might think of me. Silly, I know, but so is a ninety-pound asthmatic gaining another one hundred and thirty in muscle (as well as another foot and a half in height)._

_It's been a year, and my new job is frightfully dull. This fellow they put in charge, Agent Flynn, is completely incompetent in nearly every way possible. I follow a routine now, I wake up, go to work, then go home. If there's ever a mission, I'm never chosen. I think I understand what you were telling me about "never being picked for stickball". _

_I hardly ever see Howard anymore. He calls, but I'm usually swamped with unfinished field reports and the like. I suppose he doesn't have much better to do, now that he's finally given up looking for you. _

_The war's over, but life goes on. Without you._

My father died on my thirteenth birthday. The doctor said it was a heart attack. Mother was sobbing through the whole ordeal, but Aunt Melissa was insistent on making sure she kept calm, for the sake of the brother I hadn't met yet, nearly ready to be born. A week later, at the funeral, my Uncle Robert told me that he and Melissa were going to be looking after me and the baby. I hadn't said a word since I had blown out the candles and Father had collapsed onto the stairs.

My aunt and uncle lived in bustling London, and had a comfortable flat near a hospital. Uncle Robert was a doctor, and Aunt Melissa was a secretary. The year was 1928 when little Michael and I went to live with them.

I went to school, of course, but also looked after Michael. I never felt as if I had any time to myself. Although that's not to say I didn't. Whenever Michael was asleep for the night, and I'd finished all my homework, I'd look in my trunk to try and find some of Father's RAF medals.

He was highly decorated in the war. The Great War, he always called it. Everyone did, then, of course. Nobody knew what lied ahead. Whenever Mother was out of the room, fixing dinner, he'd sit down by the fireplace, and I'd always ask him to tell me about life in the RAF. He always said it was the height of his life, and that he'd never known a greater feeling of significance and camaraderie.

Naturally, I was enamoured. I would salute Father when he came home from work, and after he had returned it, he'd laugh and kiss me, then my mother. Mother always scowled when he talked about the war. In retrospect, I think she hated to remember the feeling of having him away. I certainly do now.

When I was a young woman in 1939, when the world broke out into war for the second time in 25 years, everyone was scared, but no one dared show it. I was working as a librarian in Soho at the time. Michael was living with me, since Aunt Melissa had died the year before, and Uncle Robert joined up again. I hated him for leaving me.

Michael would always ask for mummy, but he really meant Aunt Melissa. It managed to cut just as deep every time. But even then, there was a routine to be meant. Walk Michael to school, go to work, pick up Michael, then go home.

When the newspaper boy was shouting in the streets about the Germans, Michael would always ask me questions about whether or not we were next.

Those were the words he used, "Are we next?"

I lied, and told him I didn't know.

When the bombings started, and we sheltered with another family, Michael began to grow ill. He coughed so violently when we came out in the morning. Something in the ash, I suppose. When he closed his eyes, and I began to fear whether or not he'd ever open his eyes again, I also began to hate not only the Germans, but the war itself.

So I knew I had to do whatever it took to end it, as quickly as possible. I found myself conscripted into the Women's Auxiliary Air Force, and I left Michael in the care of the family we had often hidden from the bombs with. He wrote me letters, and I'd receive them in the radio office, then read them in the barracks, along with all the other women away from home.

I had done exceptionally well in the aptitude training, and worked as a code-breaker for the RAF. I often thought of Father's medals, and that always put a skip in my step, even on the worst days.

One day, in 1943, I received a letter marked Top Secret. It contained transfer orders, as well as the new address at which I would be reporting. From what I remember, it was a bakery on the outside.

When I entered, a small, wizened man stood smiling behind the counter.

"Good afternoon. Stopping for tea?"

"Yes, thank you, it's awfully chilly out."

The man nodded, then led me to an adjacent room which just happened to be an elevator. I was surprised, to say the least. We reached what I assumed was a basement, then a large metal door. The man nodded to me.

"Good luck, Miss Carter."

I nodded, and he went upstairs. I knocked on the door twice, and it opened to reveal a tall, well-dressed, undeniably handsome man with a thin mustache and a toothy smile. He held out his hand, and he had a drink in the other.

"I'm Howard Stark. Welcome to the Strategic Scientific Reserve. Can I get you a drink?"

I had heard of Howard Stark, of course, who hadn't? Intimidation seized me.

"I...no, thank you."

I could feel a sort of electricity coming off him in waves, and it suddenly occurred to me that I was not the first woman he had used that line on.

"Fair enough. If you'd follow me, please." He led me through a long, metal hallway to another door with the letters SSR printed on it in surprisingly small lettering. He gave me another toothy smile, then opened the door.

The office was bustling with men in white coats, men in suits, men in uniforms, women in uniforms, and telephones ringing over the din of top secret conversation. A man in a white coat with thin glasses and thinner hair came up to me and shook my hand.

"Miss Carter, it's a pleasure to meet you." He had a German accent, and I recoiled on instinct (principle?). He took notice to this and chuckled.

"Oh, please, don't be alarmed Miss Carter, I'm Jewish."

"Ah, right, forgive me, mister…"

"_Doctor_ Abraham Erskine, Miss Carter."

"Right, right."

He and Stark led me to a small room with only one door. There was a table, and three chairs. They sat on one side, I sat on the other. I made sure to keep my chin up.

Erskine perused my file (mine, I presumed), while Howard kept taking swigs from a pocket flask. Eventually, Erskine looked up, and closed the file.

"Don't let the letter you received fool you, Miss Carter, this is an interview, not a transfer." I nodded.

"Your file looks very promising, although you're one of fifteen candidates we're considering today." Again, I nodded.

He leaned forward, looking very serious.

"Miss Carter...do you believe in miracles?"

I thought of the newsreel footage I'd seen with Michael, I thought of Michael choking on the ash from the firebombs, I thought of the charred men and women in the hospital and the weeping nurses, and I thought of my father's RAF medal in my breast pocket.

"I think we need one to end this war, _Herr Doctor_."

Erskine smiled wide and looked at Howard, then back at me.

"I think you're going to fit right in, Miss Carter."

And I most certainly did.


	2. April 26, 1946

_26/4/1946_

_Steve,_

_New York has a great many people, yet I often find myself feeling rather alone. I hadn't even thought of pursuing anything resembling a relationship. I should move on, I know, but...well, you're a tough act to follow. The other women in the office all work in the typing pool, and exist in their own particular social niche; the same goes for all the men. I find myself trapped in the middle, and I can't think of a worse place to be._

_I saw Sergeant Dugan on 26th Street the other day. He wrapped me in an enormous hug, and I'm sure we drew a great many glances from whomever may have been within a 100 yard radius. He's working with Howard now, at SHIELD. Yes, I forgot to tell you, the Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate is Howard's latest brainchild._

_When I called him about it, he was very eager to tell me how long it took for him, Dugan, and four interns to come up with five words that could from a decent acronym. Three hours and two dozen martinis._

_This Zodiac fellow we've been after is a slippery one. Whenever we get a lead, Flynn sends his "golden" boys out to catch him, but they never do. _

_I often imagine what they're doing wrong that you could fix in a heartbeat. _

The SSR office in London was temporary, and we soon picked up shop to settle in New York. I had never been out of England before, and America made me feel rather...homesick. It was indeed a momentous change, and those of us who hailed from overseas were certainly feeling out of place, but the war tied us all together.

It was all rather similar to working in the radio office, actually. There was a constant pace around us, as if the world would never stop spinning, and God help us all if it did. I had an office all to myself, and grew lost in the job. It was indeed a rare occasion if Howard or someone else didn't stick their head through the door every day and ask to buy me a drink. I refused them all, but learned to be nicer about it as time went on. This lasted through 1943 and 1944.

Working as an agent, was of course, exhausting in every way imaginable. To a woman, missions were rare, very nearly unheard of. It was preposterous, and I always made sure to follow up Howard's flirtations with a substantial complaint about the lack of actual work that crossed my desk. He would always chuckle, call me "doll", then walk back to his office with a drink in his hand and a pretty young secretary in the other.

My very first field assignment was to stake out a nightclub which was supposedly a hotbed of Axis-affiliated activity. I was partnered with a square-jawed, stern-faced American with hands the size of clubs. We both turned heads wherever we went. He was a man of few words, and people called him "Brick". We sat in a car a block away, in street clothes, taking turns with a pair of binoculars. So far, nobody of interest had gone inside.

We had been there for six hours, and I was beginning to drift off during my stint, but then someone caught my eye near the door.

"I think I've got something."

"Who?"

"I'm not sure. Show me the files, quickly." He pulled several photographs we had depicting the various persons of interest from his briefcase, and one of them matched.

"That's him, Arnold Brown." I looked back at the nightclub door, and he was still there, talking to a tall, dark-haired man in a monocle. Then he went inside, while the man with the monocle went into a black car and drove away. I cleared my throat.

"What's the story on Arnold Brown?"

"Brown, Arnold, executive secretary of Imperial Industries International, we have him listed under 'possible Nazi sympathizer'."

"Hmm. Have we brought him in for questioning?"

"Not yet."

"Alright." I put the binoculars down and began to put on lipstick.

"Um...what are you doing?" Brick sounded worried, and I resisted the urge to smirk.

"I'm going in after him."

"You're joking, right?" I looked at him, and gave him the faintest smile.

"Not at all." I opened the car door and stepped out.

"I'll radio you if I need any help." I tapped my watch, then walked away. My head was rushing, and my knees felt weak, but I kept walking. It was nearly midnight now, and the street was empty and silent, save for myself and the soft clomps my shoes made against the pavement. I had my standard issue PPK attached to my leg, out of sight, and my finger twitched. I hoped to God I wouldn't have to use it.

I reached the door in about two minutes, and there was no one outside except for the bouncer. He was a big fellow, about as big as Brick.

"May I come in?" I flashed what I thought might have been my prettiest smile, and he eyed me for a moment of two. My eyes flashed across the various weak points along his torso, shoulder, neck, and groin. Inwardly, I scoffed.

"Yeah, alright, sweet cheeks." He had a thick Brooklyn accent. Again, I smiled.

"Thank you."

Then I went in. I had never been inside an actual nightclub before, and I understood why once I had. It was a portrait of depravity in the most civilized of disguises. Every woman was scantily clad, and nearly every man was chomping on a cigar. The air was thick with smoke, and the lights were dim.

Arnold Brown was nowhere in sight. Despair tugged at me, but I pressed on, and sat at the bar. I could practically feel the men's gazes on my legs, my hips, and my bust. I grinned at the bartender, and I could tell he had to keep himself from collapsing on the floor.

"Could I have a white wine, please?"

"Oh! Uh, sure thing."

He poured my drink, and even with the lighting being what it was, I could tell he was red in the face. He couldn't have been any older than twenty-five.

"What's your name?"

"Er...Brian."

"Hullo, Brian."

"Hi."

"Tell me, Brian...have you ever seen a man around here by the name of Arnold Brown?"

"Er, I think he goes into the Executive's Room with the club owners sometimes."

"Thank you, Brian."

I left him a 20 dollar bill and looked around again. Some of the men were gazing with lust, some with suspicion. I felt a small part of myself panic, and made for the powder room.

It was astonishingly empty, and therefore almost guaranteed to be dangerous. Nevertheless, I ignored my instincts, and held my watch up to my mouth.

"Brick, this is Carter, do you read, over?"

There was a short pause.  
"This is Brick, over."

"Brown's somewhere in the building, but somewhere called the Executive's Room. Do we have any intel on that?"

"Hold on, let me check."

Another pause.

"No, sorry. You need me to go in after you?"

"Absolutely not!"

"I'm going in after you."

"Dammit, Brick, you-"

Then the radio went dead.

"Bugger." I went back into the main room, and it was more or less the same as before. Brick hadn't shown up yet, and I was relieved at first, but then mortified at the prospect of him being found out, or worse. I made for the door at once, until a hand like a club briskly (but gently) gripped my arm from behind. He was sitting down at the bar. I chastised myself for not noticing him at once.

"You know, you really ought to relax."

"Why are you here? I can handle this on my own."

"Er, is there a problem here? If there is, sir, ma'am, I suggest you take it outside.

We both gave Brian a stare that I'm sure made his knees wobble under the bar. He looked at his shoes and shuffled away.

"You couldn't find Brown, so I'm offering my services."

"Your-oh, you daft bastard."

"What?"

"I don't need you to come to my rescue!"

"Well, if you ask me, this isn't exactly the kind of mission that should involve a woman. Things can get hairy, you know."

Something boiled over in my chest, and I slapped him. It was like slapping...well, a brick, but I didn't dare wince. I was too angry to let a little thing like pain get in my way.

"How _dare_ you." Two men appeared at his rear.

"Hey pal, if the lady's got a problem with you, you're gonna have to go." They were both about half his size, but somehow just as threatening.

"Oh yeah? Well, who's gonna make me, pipsqueak?"

They both gripped him by the arms, but he shoved them off, and four more took their place. Then he hit one, and another hit him. Sooner or later, there was a full-fledged brawl.

If there was ever a physical representation of chaos, that was it. Fights in bars are nothing like what people see in films. It's harsh, dangerous, and above all, inescapable. The police were there within about ten minutes, but Brick and I managed to slip out the back. Neither of us said a word to the other. We had gained that much wisdom, but little else.


	3. May Day, 1946

**A/N**:I decided to use this chapter to acknowledge all the canon at once before I can move on with the actual story. Don't worry, Romanoff is going to show up in a later chapter. I admit, this one's a bit weaker than the first two, but really only if you haven't seen the movie or the Marvel One-Shot. If you haven't, do it, they're both great.

_1/5/46_

_Steve, _

_Last night was...eventful, to say the least, so I'll try to word what happened as plainly as possible._

_The SSR office received a tip regarding "Zodiac" yesterday afternoon, and of course, we didn't catch him. Agent Flynn kept me working after hours for some menial office work, when another tip came in. I was the only one in the whole bloody building, so I went after "Zodiac". _

_The tip I received led me to a warehouse in the Bronx. There were two men on the outside, and one in the office. I dispatched them with ease. The man working in the office told me there were four men, including Zodiac, but he must have missed a day in primary (sorry, elementary) school, because there were, in fact, five. The last one was a big fellow, reminded me of someone I knew back when I was just starting out in the SSR._

_But, naturally, when I reported back, I was berated by Flynn, the misogynist bastard. He reminded me of protocol and all that, but we all really knew he wouldn't have said anything if I was a man. But right in the middle of that, he received a phone call from our good friend Howard Stark. With great exasperation, Agent Flynn told me it was his honor to inform me that I was to run SHIELD with Howard Stark._

_So, we'll see where that takes me._

I'm honestly surprised neither of us were disavowed. Naturally, Stark and Erskine heard about what happened (as well as a few of the higher-ups), and immediately put Brick on probation. I sat outside the executive office, waiting for my turn. He came out looking constipated, and I saw a few of the interns nearly drop their coffee mugs when they saw him. He looked sort of like an angry mountain. He gave me what I perceived to be a death glare as he walked away. I returned the favor, not blinking once. He didn't have the right to be angry. He wasn't the one society perceived as something to be rescued or captured.

Once again, I sat on one side, and Erskine/Stark sat on the other. Howard had a drink in his hand, and Erskine had my file open on the table. He looked up at me and smiled.

"Well...this is familiar, eh, _fraulein_?"

"Yes, I suppose." To myself, I sounded mechanical and bitter. I can only assume Erskine got the same impression, because he sobered up and Stark drained his glass.

"I suppose you know why you're here."

"Yes, I do."

"Well, then, judging from yours and Agent Marconi's reports, I see we have every reason to remove both of you from active duty."

I had suspected he would say something to that effect, but that didn't make it sting any less. I clenched to keep my posture.

"I see."

"Do...you have any defence regarding your actions?"

"No, sir. I still maintain that I am in the right. I had the situation in hand, and Brick-er, Agent Marconi completely flubbed the operation of his own accord."

"Yes, you said so in your report."

"So why are you asking me again?" The words tasted bitter coming out of my mouth, like insubordination, but I felt as if I deserved it in some respects. I had been wronged, and the universe owed me some recompense.

"Because, Agent Carter, we wanted to make sure."

I could feel the muscles in my neck squeeze together ever so slightly as I compulsively tilted my head in response.

"Make no mistake, protocol dictates that you be taken off the active duty list, but in reality, you're simply being transferred."

"To where?"

Erskine's eyes smiled for his mouth.

"My department."

And the rest, as one might say, is history. I met Steven Rogers in 1943, just before my twenty-eighth birthday, and I wasn't impressed, at first. But that doesn't make me any different from anyone else who only knew him with their eyes. Erskine was practically in love with him. He made such a grand effort to make sure that everyone else understood how perfect Steven was for his "Super Soldier Program".

When he and Howard explained to me what the program entailed, I remember thinking it was a load of rubbish. Then again, I wasn't exactly in the best of moods, so the idea took some time to grow on me.

And so did Steve. He had such a genuine way about him, as if he were something utterly and irrevocably good-hearted. It took some time, but I finally saw what Erskine was going on about.

And I truly think that he died for someone he believed in. After the HYDRA agent came forward, we all blamed ourselves for not weeding him out before it was too late, myself included.

But there was still a war on, damn it. That tosser, Senator Brandt, sent Steve off to collect war bonds. Bloody war bonds, when there are millions of people dying, and the Allies have the key to ending the war sitting in their lap. I wasn't the only one who felt that way, of course. Steve, Howard, Colonel Phillips, we all felt like we'd cheated Doctor Erskine's ghost out of his dream.

Fortunately, things didn't stay that way. Steve rescued Sergeant Barnes' squadron from a POW camp behind enemy lines, and the Army finally realized what they were doing wrong.

The year 1944 was a good one. We were all doing good work, finally. Steve was in his prime, and so we all were.

Once, between missions, I caught some private attempting to seduce Steve, and in retrospect, I may have overreacted a bit. In my heart of hearts, I knew he didn't mean to hurt my feelings.

Rogers and his team raided a HYDRA train, and we were able to capture Arnim Zola. Unfortunately, Sergeant Barnes was lost in the mission. Steve was devastated, and I felt awful for not being able to do anything except pat him on the shoulder and go back to work.

Using information we extracted from Zola, the final HYDRA stronghold was located, and Rogers confronted Johann Schmidt, the Red Skull. I remember seeing Steve board the plane and wishing I was on there with him. But Colonel Phillips convinced me I was better off on the ground, as if he knew Steve would be gone by the end of this mission.

And he was. I felt as if I was standing still on the edge of a cliff while every man I'd ever loved was falling off the edge. I sat at the radio for at least ten minutes after Steve's end went silent. Howard finally pulled me away. We went into an empty conference room, and he poured us both a drink. His hands were shaking, and there were tears in his eyes. Eventually, we both broke down into angry, stifled tears, crying into the other's shoulder. I hated myself for being weak again. I'm sure he felt the same way.

In 1945, the war was won, but to Howard and I, it was just another day without Steve. He took to drinking even harder, and often times, I couldn't reach him for days. I still had a job with the SSR, although after the war, things mostly involved cleanup and filing. I didn't have another field assignment until 1946. I began living in Brooklyn, and the dust in the world seemed to settle.

After the "Zodiac" incident, I went to work at SHIELD with Howard, and it was certainly an exhausting job. The organization was still in its infancy, but we knew we were doing good work again. And that's all that mattered.

But the pangs of loneliness were still there. As the months went on, I began to think seriously about getting married, often with short staccato bursts of awareness directed at my own stupidity. I was pushing thirty, single, and completely devoted to my job.

Once, at the end of the day, I was approached by a conventionally handsome young man, and he asked if he could take me out for a drink sometime. I recognized him from my days in the SSR as one of Flynn's "golden boys", and figured he'd been transferred to SHIELD as well. I took care to decline as politely as I could, and he nodded, looking crestfallen, then walked out the office door. I heard him whisper "frigid bitch", but I pretended not to hear.

Although that's not to say I didn't have friends. Howard, Sergeant Dugan, and I often had dinner delivered directly to the office on late nights, and we shared many a laugh and a good story. Inwardly, I often marveled at how different the three of us were, and how well we got along.

But I still wished Steve was there. Whenever Howard was away looking for him in the ice, and it was just Dugan and I, we wished Howard was there, too. We shared quiet drinks and shuffled on home when we realized there was nothing left to say. More than once, I missed the war. To me, the war meant Steve, the work, Michael, Father, and everything else I'd lost. But life went on, as it always does. The dust always settles, no matter how bad it gets and how much you don't want it to.


	4. February 10, 1955

(**A/N: **Sorry this chapter took so long, I've been busy with other stuff. But excuses, excuses. Although, this one's a tad longer than the rest (so far), so I guess that makes up for it.)

_10/2/55_

_Steve,_

_I'm sorry it took so long to write to you again. The last few years have been rather hectic. Managing a top-secret espionage organization with a borderline alcoholic is no picnic._

_Things are changing, Steve. The Nazis seem like a lifetime ago, but now this fellow, McCarthy, is urging America to wage a new war against itself. The government practically has us seeing Communists in our soup._

_S.H.I.E.L.D. has remained largely unaffected by the craze, probably because barely anybody knows we exist. _

_I'm sure it won't last._

_I received a letter from my brother last month. It is the first I'd heard from him in almost ten years. He's married, and living in Suffolk. Unfortunately, his wife is dying of lung cancer._

_Ten bloody years, I worry about him, and now he just comes out of the blue and only contacts me to let me know the love of his life is dying._

_But it was something of a relief to know I haven't lost _him_. _

I finished writing the letter to Steve, then folded it up. The drawer was full of sealed envelopes addressed to S. Rogers, to no address in particular. Even when I wrote them every day, I had no intention of sending them or showing them to anyone. I looked up from the desk and out into the bustling space outside my office. The cacophony of ringing telephones and typewriters clacking seemed a world away. I put the letter in the desk, then stood up to collect my things. My plane to London left at 8:00, and it was nearly 6. I locked the door to my office and found Dugan. he was in the break room, munching on what could have easily been his fourth bagel since lunchtime.

"Heya, Carter."

"Hello, Dugan, I'll be leaving for the weekend now, if anything comes up, just leave it with Miss Van Dyne." Alicia Van Dyne was my assistant, and she was unfailingly competent. She was married to Vernon Van Dyne, the world-renowned scientist, but insisted on keeping busy during the day.

"Sure thing, boss. Hey, have you heard from Stark? He hasn't been in his office for a while."

I paused before answering.

"He's probably just busy somewhere else, you know how he is."

He snorted.

"Yeah, well, if I had his job…" Then he took another bite of his bagel, and gave me a friendly pat on the arm. Of course, since this is Dugan we're talking about, a friendly pat to him had roughly the impact force of a small child falling from a tree in their backward. But I'd gotten used to that sort of thing. I smiled, and waved him off before I left the break room, then the building.

As I passed into the street, and hailed a taxi, I couldn't help but notice a woman remaining stationary between the constantly moving denizens of Manhattan. She was inarguably beautiful, and had vibrant red hair. She wore a grey pantsuit, and was clearly much younger than I was. I thought nothing of it, but got into the taxi without a word.

Michael's letter came with a return address, and I sent a response, saying I'd be returning to England to see him. I made clear that I was quite livid at his lack of communication, to be putting it delicately.

Needless to say, I was quite anxious. I hadn't returned to England since I'd left, all those years ago, with Howard and Abraham. Fortunately, almost nothing had changed. At least, for the worst.

When I'd left, I'd seen London at its worst, bombed to damn near oblivion, with soot-covered children running in the streets, scrounging for food, and everyone waiting for the next air-raid siren. Now, it seemed as literal a representation as a phoenix as anything I'd ever seen. I swelled with English pride, and felt bittersweet that Michael had been able to witness reconstruction firsthand, without me, while I was jetting around the world, falling head over heels with boys from Brooklyn.

The train from London to Suffolk was littered with concentrated nostalgia and a sense of pleasant status-quo. After years of New York coffee, the first cup of English tea I had in ten years was the best part of the trip so far. As the country flitted by, I reviewed the letter Michael sent me.

He had two children, David (after our father, I assumed), and James with his wife, Janice. He lived on Castle Street, near the Pennings Nature Reserve. Apparently, he had done quite successful in corporate banking after the war. After a few hours, I found myself closing in on his doorstep, with a growing pit in my belly. Nonetheless, despite Zeno's best efforts, I traversed infinity and knocked on the door. I had indistinct voices, and I knew it would be him who answered. And it was.

He was tall and handsome, and fair-haired, _but so young._ His eyes widened with surprise as he looked at me up and down. Not a word went between us, and he gripped me in a hug that left Dugan to shame. He began to sob, and inevitably, I did as well. All frustration and time vanished, and suddenly, we were ten years younger, irrevocably grateful the other was alive and well.

Eventually, we regained our composure, and he invited me inside. They were just about to have afternoon tea. The interior of the house was impeccable in its decoration, with hardwood floors, and bookshelves covering nearly every wall. David and James were no older than five, and they both hugged my legs, yelling "Aunt Peggy!" and so on. I couldn't help but chuckle.

I sat at the table when Michael said "All right, who wants to help Daddy bring Mummy her tea?" His voice had a practiced joviality about it, and my heart broke for him as I recalled the contents of his letter. The boys both raised their hands and he smiled. Then he gestured to me.

"Come on, sis! You can meet the missus." David tugged on my skirt.

"Yes, please, Aunt Peggy."

I nodded, and put on my best smile.

"Yes, alright." Michael and I shared a look, and we went upstairs.

Janice Carter had an extraordinary delicate beauty about her, and skin was porcelain-white. She was sitting up in bed, reading a leather-bound book, and coughing occasionally into a white handkerchief (on which I spotted blood, but said nothing of it), then she looked up at the four of us as we entered the bedroom.

"Hullo, everyone. You must be Peggy. It's so good to finally meet you, darling." I smiled and nodded. Her voice was so soft, I had to strain my ears to hear it properly. Michael stepped forward and brought her tea. I spied them muttering and smiling at one another before he kissed her gently on the forehead and gestured toward the door.

"Boys, Mummy needs her rest, let's leave her alone for a bit." The boys nodded and we all shuffled out of the room. Michael gently shut the door behind us. We went back into the kitchen while David and James went into the backyard to play. Michael and sat over our tea, and again, we were faced with a hopelessly impersonal silence. I decided to break it.

"Michael, I-"

"Peggy, there are a few things that I need to say to you which I think you need to hear." I very nearly replied, but instead, I nodded.

"There's...no excuse at all for not contacting you, and you have every right to be royally pissed off at me, but...I...I'm so glad to see you. I just hope you realize that."

I paused before speaking.

"I do, Michael. But, you have to understand something too. I'm your big sister, I'm supposed to be looking after you. It...It took everything in me to leave. And I suppose I just wanted some confirmation that it wasn't as huge a mistake as I feared." The words were flowing, but my throat was feeling rickety. I suddenly began to recall my own righteous frustration at him, but those feelings now mingled with pity, impotence, and confusion.

He swallowed, then looked at his feet.

"I know." And there was a moment of understanding, made clear by the vibrations running across the table.

Gradually, we both brightened, and filled in the blanks of the other's life. After the war, he got a job at a bank, and worked his way up the ladder until he was Senior Vice President of Accounts. Four years ago, he met Janice, purchased the house, and had the boys. I felt a sense of affirmation, as well as clear, genuine pride.

Naturally, I tried to be as vague as possible about my job. I didn't want SHIELD to be listing my long-lost brother as a possible leak. I told him I had a husband with the most unremarkable job I could think of (accountant) and a government job on the side. For some reason, I took comfort in the fact that it was only a half-lie.

As the sun slowly crept down the hills, he insisted that I stay the night, and I accepted. Dinner was delicious, a beef roast topped with various seasonings and fried potatoes on the side. I noted to myself how well my brother had learned to cook, then bitterly recalled why he had to. After the boys were put to bed, I joined Michael for a brandy, and I told him about America. He seemed rather intrigued, much to my surprise. In an effort of overcompensating for my inordinately dangerous lifestyle, I described Manhattan as dull as I possibly could. But still, after a few years of living in the country, I suppose anything would sound overwhelming in comparison.

In the morning, we all joined Janice for breakfast (eggs, bacon, and fried bread), and I prepared to leave England once again. David and James protested with great childish vehemence, but I resisted the temptation at great effort. Janice was sad to see me go. I hugged as best as I could with her in the bed. When I was at the doorway, Michael stopped me.

"Er, just hold on a tick, Pegs. Boys, do you have something to show Aunt Peggy?"

They both nodded, then James pulled a sheet of paper from behind him and held it out to me. It was, in crayon, a rendering of five people standing outside, near a house, two shorter than the rest, and two of the larger having long, dark hair. David gestured to each figure in turn with his finger.

"That's me, that's James, that's Daddy, that's Mummy, and that's you!"

"We made it ourselves!"

The figure that was me even had a small suitcase clutched in my hand.

Ostensibly, I was touched. I couldn't keep my voice from breaking as I spoke.

"Oh, it's gorgeous." I looked at Michael square in the eyes, and he was tearing up as well. Again, we embraced. I got down to face the boys, and gently put the drawing into my suitcase.

"Now...you take good care of your daddy while I'm gone, all right? Because I need someone to do it while I'm gone." Michael chuckled, but it was bordering on a sob. James looked at the suitcase, then at me.

"Will you be back soon, Aunt Peggy?"

I didn't hesitate in answering.

"Oh, you can count on it, boys."

I stood and looked at the three of them, then walked out the door. I looked back to see David and James waving, with Michael standing behind them, a smile dripping with melancholy spread across his face.

Honestly, I can't recall anything about the journey back to New York because it must have been nearly identical in every manner. Except my suitcase had one more sheet of paper inside.

I took a taxi from JFK back to my apartment. I went up the stairs, fishing around in my purse for my keys. I failed to notice the two men standing outside my door until it was too late. One of them spoke up.

"Miss Carter?"

"Yes?"

"We're with the CIA. You're gonna have to come with us."

"What's this about?"

"Ma'am, don't make this difficult. Just follow us to the car."

"I'm not going anywhere with you lot until you tell me what the CIA wants."

He sighed, and rubbed his fingers on his temples. He gestured to the other one.

"Marconi, if you don't mind." The name sparked neurons behind my eyes, and I suddenly felt an intense feeling of apprehension. I recognized the sneer the man gave as he stepped forward and put his brick-like hand around my arm.

My better judgment told me that it would do absolutely nothing to resist, and it would in fact be only detrimental to what I could only assume was my delicate legal status.

So, of course, I slapped Brick across the face for the first time in years, and it hurt all the same. He muscled me back down the stairs and into a long black town car. I didn't say another word. We drove for what seemed like an hour before gridlock hit us like a ton of, well, bricks, and we were stuck in traffic. Not Brick hit the steering wheel in frustration.

"Goddamnit!"

"Hell do you expect, Jones, it's Manhattan on a Monday afternoon."

They went back and forth for a while in a similar fashion as I gazed out the window, trying to float the possible outcomes of this situation. Nearly all of them involved phoning Howard as soon as possible for some type of aid, legal or otherwise. I realized that we were on the same street as SHIELD HQ, and allowed my eyes to rest on the painfully ordinary-looking office building.

Until, out of the corner of my eye, I spied a familiar redhead walking briskly from the front door and into a car. Before another thought could form itself, the building exploded. Everyone, including the men in the front seat took notice immediately.

We all got out of the car in a nearly simultaneous fashion. The building was on fire, and large pieces of it were lying either on the sidewalk or on the top of cars. I attempted to run towards it, but Brick stopped me. I could hear Jones frantically speaking into the radio about an explosion in Midtown before he gestured to Brick and we all got back in the car.

The pair put on their seatbelts, and Jones swore under his breath before he looked out the windows.

"Fasten your seatbelt, sweetcheeks."

Then he put the car into gear and started to drive on the sidewalk. He honked his horn several times to get pedestrians out of the way, and I sat back in my seat. Refusing to believe that the last twenty minutes had occurred, I allowed exhaustion to overtake me. I didn't smell any smoke at first, but in the back of that CIA car, even with Brisk's disgusting cologne spread all over the seats, when I shut my eyes, I could see it.

And, above all else, I didn't want to.


	5. Valentine's Day, 1955

(**A/N**: This one's a tad shorter than the rest, sorry about that. I won't be updating as frequently for a while, I'll be starting rehearsal for a musical next week, so I'll be busy during the day. Besides, I feel like we're sort of coming up on the end. Not quite, though.)

_14/2/55_

_Steve,_

_I would have written sooner, but I've had the most unbelievable few days._

_On the twelfth, when I returned from England, there were two men from the CIA outside my apartment door, waiting for me. Naturally, they wouldn't say why they were there or what the CIA wanted with me, but I submitted nonetheless. On the drive there, we were caught in traffic outside SHIELD HQ, and the building exploded. _

_Afterwards, they took me to a safe house, and told me to await further instructions. Yesterday, I received a telegram from Howard, saying he would be coming by to see me. I do hope he'll be able to shed some light (if any) on just what the hell is going on. _

_And I do hope he's alright. _

As soon as the pen dotted the period, I heard a knock on the door. Slowly, I stood, holding a Walther PPK behind my back, and drew closer to the door.

"Who is it?"

"Just open the damn door, Peggy." I chuckled from relief as I opened the door and recognized the unmistakable moustache of Howard Stark. He came in and closed the door behind me, then embraced me, very suddenly.

I could tell he was very grateful to see me. He pulled away, and as I noted tears in his eyes, he cleared his throat.

"It's, uh...it's Dugan."

My throat tightened.

"They found him in the basement. We're guessing he tried to fight off the bomber, but…" He shook his head, then went into the kitchen. I sat on a chair and held my face in my hands, gritting my teeth to hold back tears. The gun clattered away from my grip. Every memory I had of Sergeant Dugan flooded in at once, from when we first met after Steve rescued him, to seeing him for the last time in the break room, munching on a bagel. God, if I had known that would have been our last conversation...

"Haven't you got any booze in the place?" Howard's voice startled me all the way from the kitchen, and I cleared my throat.

"It's a bloody safe house, Howard." He shuffled back into the living room with two glasses in hand and set his coat on the sofa.

"Yeah, well, good thing for you, I always bring my own."

As he poured the drinks his hip flask, I stared at him, and ten years of concern furrowed my brow.

"Howard, do you think...you might have a bit of a problem?"

He screwed the top of his flask closed and handed me a glass. Our fingers touched, but neither of us paid any mind.

He held the glass to his mouth and paused to answer me.

"No." Then he swallowed the lot in one gulp and winced. I set mine on the table. The Walther was facing away from it. He cleared his throat again.

"Then again, if you consider the fact that the Headquarters of a top-secret espionage organization that the two of us are supposed to be handling, just went up in smoke a few days ago and nobody knows why, then I wouldn't say I don't have a problem." I didn't reply, he just kept staring at his own empty glass. Then, I downed my own, and it was roughly the equivalent to how I imagined swallowing paint thinner would be. I coughed, then he chuckled.

"You act like this is your first drink." I chuckled, knowing full well it wasn't.

"...Why are you here, Howard?" He sobered up at that (not literally, of course).

"I've gotten word that some folks from up high will be coming down to see you soon. Maybe today, I don't know. And...I needed to make sure you were alright." I wasn't surprised, but still felt warm towards him for saying it out loud.

"Thank you, Howard."

There was an awkward silence, and it was thankfully interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Peggy Carter?" The voice sounded gruff and official. Howard and I both stood and looked at each other. Then I went to open the door. Three men in dark suits walked in, all holding suitcases. They looked like your typical G-Men.

"Miss Carter, if you could please have a seat." They gestured to the couch, so I sat. Then they turned their attention to Howard.

"Mr. Stark, we're gonna have to ask you to leave." He looked at the men, then at myself. He smiled at me, then picked up his coat.

"Well, I guess that means I better be off then." Then he went outside and shut the door behind him. I suddenly began to recall my feelings of outrage at the American government. Before I could voice my thoughts, one of the men started speaking.

"Miss Carter, what we're about to tell you is classified, and we're going to tell you what's happened in the order it happened as best we can." He opened his suitcase and took out a reel-to-reel sound recorder. Then he turned it on. As it spun, I stared, never meeting any of their eyes, although I could feel them resting on me.

"At approximately three o'clock in the afternoon on February tenth, we received an anonymous tip stating that you were affiliated with the Communist Party." Before I could protest, he pulled a few photos out of his briefcase of myself and Howard Stark drinking together back when SHIELD was in its infancy.

"What is the nature of your relationship with Howard Stark?"

"What's any of this got to do with Howard?"

"That's classified."

"He's no Communist, I assure you."

"We have evidence to the contrary."

"Show me."

"That's classified."

"Then I'm not saying anything." He sighed and rubbed his temples.

"There's more to it. We received word from the same source that you were planning to bomb SHIELD HQ on the twelfth. But once we looked into it, we found out that you weren't the culprit at all.

"Who was?" He pulled a file out of his suitcase and handed it to me. I opened it, and paper clipped to a field report was a photo of the same red-haired girl that I'd seen walking out of HQ and as I left on the tenth.

"Natasha Romanoff."

"The KGB's top operative. We've been calling her 'The Black Widow.'"

"She doesn't look any older than eighteen. Seventeen, even."

"We know." I looked over the file. She'd been seen in Manhattan, Los Angeles, Hong Kong, Paris, all the major cities. I remembered watching the building burst into flames, with concrete falling onto the streets, and Howard telling me about Dugan.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Since the loss of SHIELD HQ, we're shuffling all the operatives to other agencies until we can repair the damage made. We think that, given your nationality and experience, you should be transferred to MI6."

"What?"

"Until further notice."

I gritted my teeth and frowned.

"That's absurd."

"Those are your orders, Agent." I exhaled and glared at all three of the men.

"When do I start?"

"Immediately. Your jet leaves in an hour from JFK." He pulled a large manila envelope from his briefcase and handed it to me. The whole thing felt so painfully familiar.

"Yes, sir." He closed the briefcase and held his hand out for me to shake. I took it.

"The United States government thanks your for your service, miss." Then they all left, single-file, out the door. I stood up and folded the letter to Steve before putting in an envelope, then in my coat pocket. I began to pack, and as I did, I began to hope that, by working with MI6, I could track down this "Black Widow" and bring her to justice. I told myself it was what Steve would have done, and I didn't bother for one second to think I was wrong.


End file.
